


Lovely One

by waitingtobelit



Series: with starry feet [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bookstores, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Inspired by Poetry, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-04-21
Packaged: 2017-12-09 03:52:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/769656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waitingtobelit/pseuds/waitingtobelit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Jehan has a poet for every occasion, especially for Marius.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lovely One

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: So Courfeyrac/Marius have kind of taken over my heart lately and then I came across Pablo Neruda’s “Your Laughter” and it brought them to mind immediately. So I had to write something for them. Title comes from Neruda’s poem of the same name. 
> 
> This is the fluffiest thing I've ever written. Also, pretentious literary allusions ahoy! 
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with Les Miserables or any of the poems or lines from poems mentioned within. I don’t own anything to do with Pablo Neruda’s The Captain’s Verses. This was written for recreational purposes only.

The cramped, sorry excuse of a break room doesn’t have the space for much more than an old, wooden table and a chair with three legs. Set apart from the register by one flimsy, mint green sheet, it serves as both the place where employees take lunch and the hallway between the bathroom and Musichetta’s office as manager. Marius sits hunched over on the table, haphazard roast beef sandwich one hand and the copy of Neruda’s “The Captain’s Verses” Jehan’s lent him in the other. With Musichetta off at a meeting and Jehan working the floor, Marius finds a kind of peace as the lone occupant of the back area.

He bites off more than he can chew as he reads, a habit formed from whenever distraction overtakes him. (“You sound like an overenthusiastic brontosaurus,” Courfeyrac bluntly pointed out to him one night over beer and cheap pizza as Marius attempted to plow through the final fifty pages of _Birdsong_ with half a slice in his mouth.) Still, perched on the old table, leaning back into the wall, he achieves a brief respite from the outside world and all the responsibilities that await him there. His legs swing off the edge of the table as he reads, the turning of pages the only sound he can make out in his solitude.

He almost chokes and he definitely falls off the creaky, overly burdened wooden table when he gets to a certain couple of lines in “Your Laughter.” He shudders as though the words reached out from the pages to drag his heart down in their oceanic depth. 

“Marius?” Jehan, his coworker and the person he loves flailing with over poetry best, pokes his head in from the front at the noise. Marius, very red in the face and collapsed in a pile of limbs on the floor, waves up at his fellow ginger even as he despairs at the remainders of his sandwich scattered across the room.

“I’m alright. I just, um. This book just surprised me, is all.” He cringes as he feels the flush all the way down to his neck. He hopes desperately to keep the sudden realization clawing up his throat from reaching his face.

“So I take it you’re enjoying Neruda, then.” There is an overly innocent and Disney-like quality to Jehan’s tone that keeps him alert. Marius narrows his eyes in response at the slight smirk that tugs at his friend’s mouth. He huffs, trying not to pout and failing. (“Aw, wee lamb.” Courfeyrac coos whenever Marius does this in their apartment. Marius regrets ever agreeing to watch _Brave_ with him, though he can’t quite quell the strange happiness that bubbles up in him like sea foam at the teasing.)

“That’s what I thought!” Jehan, smirk widening, cajoles as he saunters back to the front counter. Marius is still pouting at the empty space he leaves behind.

He’s only worked at the tiny bookstore known as the Lilac Branch for about a month now, but the place already feels more like home than home ever did. After an explosive argument with his grandfather following the death of his father (and uncovering the letters from said father that his grandfather kept from him for years), Marius left for university after applying for every possible scholarship and securing work as both a tutor and a translator. He cut himself off entirely from his family, additionally announcing his bisexuality to the red of his grandfather’s face just as he walked out the door. He hasn’t allowed himself to look back ever since, though his aunt still writes to him every month with money he always refuses.

 He declared a major in literature with every intention of going on to law school. Then he met Courfeyrac, derailing every carefully constructed plan he’d had for the future.

In spite of his dedication, Marius had forgotten to apply for housing in time to meet the deadline. His first day at university found him desperately scampering across campus for any kind of housing opportunity, from off-campus apartments to hoping for a place on the waiting list. By the end of the day, he wound up with what he had started with: nothing.

So it was that he found himself at the favored bar of the students, a dive of a place known simply as the Musain. He might have been cut off financially and poor from his recently purchased text books, but Marius still found money to get drunk on.

One beer lead to four beers and Marius, as a complete lightweight, wound up stumbling around the bar much to the delight of the rest of the student patrons. (“You’ve always been a goddamn adorable drunk,” Grantaire cackles as he ruffles his hair every time Marius winds up wasted.)

He bumped into the embodiment of a dark-haired stranger and instead of an apology, blurted out: “I have come to sleep with you.”

The stranger, startled only for a brief second, grinned at him in response before helping him into the seat next to him.

Thus it was that he went home with Courfeyrac for the first time to crash on his couch.

As the clock nears 1:00, signaling the end of his break, he shakes his head to clear it of old memories and closes his book to hop off the counter, grabbing plenty of paper towels in the process. He takes care to clean up every piece of his unfortunate sandwich from the carpeted floor, scrubbing and picking out crumbs from between crevices. He works quickly enough to finish in time for Jehan’s break, though his mind is still reeling. On his way through the sheet that serves as a door, he mutters “laugh at the clumsy boy who loves you” under his breath like a prayer. He stares straight ahead as he walks and yet he still catches sight of the smirk on Jehan’s face that is unable to stop growing. His lips turn downwards on their own accord.

The store is mostly empty save for the couple at the front of the store, a brunette woman and her equally brunette boyfriend perusing through the biography section. They swing their hands together between them, fingers gently intertwined as the man leans against the woman’s shoulder and the woman strokes his hair with her free hand. Marius quickly buries himself in the fantasy section, the aisle closest to the register, haphazardly straightening books as he swallows down his envy.

He’s in love with Courfeyrac. Of course he is. Utterly, madly in love with the friend who offered him a place to stay when he had nowhere else to go, with the man who constantly teases him – with the person who likes him anyway in spite of his ridiculous lack of a grasp on his own life. He adores his smile, the way it lights up his entire face in the dark of a bar. He loves the way he so openly gives affection, embracing all of his friends with an equal amount of zeal. He loves the way he possesses the ability to find balance in any given situation. It took for a twentieth century poet to help him fully realize it, but Marius is in love with Courfeyrac.

He does not think he’s loved him since that night they met at the bar, but certainly he has loved him for longer than he realizes. (And he cannot deny he was at least attracted to Courfeyrac at first sight.) He leans his head against the cool spines of new books and inhales deeply, one hand on his face as the other clenches into a fist by his side.

The bell rings, disrupting his reverie as it indicates customers at the register. Marius shakes his head and all but runs to the counter. The woman sighs as the man briefly rubs her shoulder before placing a biography of Fitzgerald on the counter. Ah, another one of those couples.

“I’m so sorry.” He gives his best repentant smile, which Courfeyrac says always makes him look like a puppy just to get Marius to pout. “I’ve been spent too much time with books.”

The woman gives him something of a snide smile but otherwise says nothing as she pays for the book and leaves, again taking the hand of her boyfriend to swing their entwined fingers between them. Marius sighs as the door closes behind them.

Checking to ensure the store is completely vacated, Marius returns to the counter and takes out Neruda once again, his eyes alighting as his chest constricts at the sight of those lovely words.

“…until your hands closed on my chest and there like two wings they ended their journey.”  He soaks up the words like the earth absorbs the May sunlight after an overbearing winter. His breathing grows erratic, his hands shaking slightly against the page. The drumming noise in his chest swathes him in unsteady rhythm so that he does not hear the bell on the front door.

“So what poet has he got you hooked on this time?” Cosette’s inquisitive voice rings out as he nearly drops the book. Cosette snatches the volume from him before Marius gets the chance to recover his grip upon it.

“Neruda? Very nice. How…thoughtful of him.” The sparkle in Cosette’s eye rings out in the same sing-song undercurrent in Jehan’s voice from earlier in the day.

“…Am I that obvious?” Marius buries his face in his hands, the blush burning its face once more.

“Well,” Cosette says, her voice full of gentle amusement as she places the book down beside him, “you’re not lurking outside his window in the garden by his dorm, so by your standards I’d say you’re being absolutely subtle.”

Marius half-grins, half-winces into his hands at the memory. Marius walked into a lamp post when he first saw Cosette walking across the street separating the arts building from the main cafeteria. He can still recall the lilies entwined in her braided hair; he can still hear Courfeyrac teasing him for the bruise around his eye. (“That’s what you get for falling in love with Rapunzel, dear friend,” he grinned while, regardless, pressing an ice pack to said eye.)

After employing the help of his friend Eponine, who happened to room in the same building as Cosette, Marius acquired her room number and proceeded to spend the next week beneath her window from behind a tree in the garden that lay before her dorm building. One Thursday night, well, early Friday morning, really, Cosette confronted him in her fancy white nightgown, nearly giving Marius a heart attack.

“Did you suddenly fall into a zombie apocalypse?” Courfeyrac had asked when he caught sight of Marius’ pale face and rapid, uneven breathing when he stumbled back into their apartment.

“She met me in her nightgown,” Marius replied as if in a trance, his hands still trembling from their encounter. Courfeyrac shook his head and placed a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“Bless your heart, you poor virginal creature.” He had embraced him from behind before ruffling a hand through his messy hair as Marius wriggled and pouted in protest. “You’re like a unicorn!”

Marius and Cosette dated for nearly half of the rest of the year, this being the first serious relationship for them both. Courfeyrac never did stop giving Marius grief for walking around “like a lovesick puppy” or “accidentally” walking on them on the couch in his and Marius’ shared apartment. (Marius tried to repay the favor whenever Courfeyrac brought any of his own paramours back to their place but found Courfeyrac too quick and too bright for such tricks, the bastard.)

They hardly ever fought, and when they did it was typically over mundane things like whether dark chocolate was better than milk. (Cosette firmly believed that chocolate should be bitter, whereas Marius remained in the “all chocolate should be as creamy and as sweet as possible” camp.) Most of their dates consisted of meetings at the coffee shop where Enjolras led the resident student political group on campus, Friends of the ABC, where they lingered long after everyone else had left over hot chocolate and scones.

Cosette had been the one to break up with Marius. March 5th, 2009. Though they both moved on, Marius was sentimental enough to lodge the date of his first genuine heartbreak in his memory.

“I think we’re better off as friends,” she had murmured over hot chocolate as Marius tried not to down his all in one go. He had trembled, but he had managed to refrain from bursting into tears in public. “It’s not that I don’t love you. Far from it. I just need to spend some time on my own.”

Courfeyrac met him at home with a warm blanket, cheap beer and his copy of _Batman & Robin_.

Though he saw less of Cosette after their break-up, they remained on good speaking terms. A month after their separation, Marius found himself left behind in the coffee shop with Cosette after a meeting. She bought him coffee and he bought them scones though the manager glared at them for ordering so near the closing hour.

They wound up talking for hours, moving outside as the coffee shop closed. Cosette proved a rock in the storm of Marius’ ongoing struggle with confidence in his sexuality as Marius provided Cosette with an ear for her own struggles with her father. “He won’t tell me anything when I ask, just that “his job” might suddenly require him to transfer to England. I really don’t understand him, sometimes!” She had said, wringing her hands and trying not to cry. He had hugged her then and she returned it.

Cosette became one of his closest friends, right up there with Courfeyrac and the rest of their group.

“Anyway, you really should just tell him already.” Cosette now places her hand on his shoulder and squeezes, a familiar gesture. “I say this with love and on behalf of all the rest of our friends.”

He looks up at Cosette after another few moments of moping into his hands. She smiles at him the way she’s always smiled at him, with an illuminating patience that would make the saints envious. Dressed in a lilac sundress with mint green tights, she possesses all the vibrancy of a preschooler experimenting with color. With her hair recently cropped into a bob, the daisies that crown it now give her the appearance of a pagan goddess caught up in the glamour of the 1920s. A flash of red by her left hand, held slightly behind her back, disrupts her otherwise luminously pastel ensemble.

“For Jehan?” He nods as he recognizes the bouquet of poppies in her left hand. Cosette quickly hides them further behind her back and nods.

“Of course,” she answers, a delicate blush blooming on her cheeks to render her just like the petals that grace her appearance.

Cosette and Jehan have been together for two years now, though they’ve known each other since Marius first introduced Cosette to the Friends of the ABC. Cosette had taken to the group immediately, and Eponine and Musichetta were thrilled with the addition of another female perspective. Yet, even while she and Marius were still dating, Cosette couldn’t help but be drawn to the quiet boy in the corner dressed like one of her beloved ragdolls with flowers in his hair.

Cosette jokes now that it was over for her and Marius the moment Jehan began to speak with her of Edna St. Vincent Millay, but Marius isn’t quite sure she is entirely kidding. He never warmed to Edna St. Vincent Millay whereas Cosette worshipped her as if she were a goddess. To find in Jehan a kindred spirit felt to her as though she had found her own steadfastness in a bright star. Regardless, it still took the pair of them two more years and three other relationships before they found their way to each other. (“Finally!” Musichetta had cheered as she raised her glass to toast their first entrance into the campus coffee shop as a couple, Cosette’s braid draped over Jehean’s shoulder as they leaned against one another.)

Eponine always says that Cosette and Jehan are that quirky couple from an indie movie, adorable and quaint almost to the point of obnoxiousness. They dress like woodland creatures, take walks barefoot after midnight, and make necklaces out of the shells they collect from the beach. Then they go and volunteer at libraries, or help settle arguments between Enjolras and Grantaire, or bake goods for all their friends and one can’t help but adore them all the more. Marius felt strange, at first, watching their courtship. But then they all went out for drinks and a poetry reading. The oddity of the situation evaporated entirely after the first round of whiskey and the opening lines to “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.”

Now he can’t help but smile when he catches the pair of them holding hands or making out in the backroom during one of Jehan’s breaks. They embody the whimsicality of love. Marius finds it impossible not to love them for it.

“Cosette?” Jehan pokes his head out through the sheet before Cosette can make it around the counter, his face brightening at the sight of her.

“Hello.” She giggles, her crown of flowers trembling in her hair as she waves with her free hand, keeping her left one firmly behind her back.

“You’re hiding something, Lark.” Jehan emerges to grasp her right hand and pull her closer. “Show me.”

“Ta da!” She pulls the poppies from behind her to place them in his hand. His smile in response could influence the movements of the tides. He steals a kiss before tugging Cosette with him to the back room. Just before pulling the sheet back, he halts and turns to Marius, pleading with his eyes.

The clock reads 1:30. Marius makes a show of rolling his eyes before nodding. Jehan grins in response.

“Thank you, Marius. I owe you.”

Jehan actually owes him many times over for the amount of times Marius has assisted in lengthening his lunch breaks in the presence of Cosette. If time were currency, Jehan would owe him something of a small fortune.

Marius tries to go back to reading but the muffled giggles and sounds of general adorability keep infiltrating his attempts. He shuts the book with a sigh before an impish grin unfurls upon his face. He leaves the book on the counter before making his way to the sheet and pulling it aside.

Cosette, perched on Jehan’s lap, leans their foreheads together as their lips meet over and over again, hands intertwined by their sides. They look like a pair of fairies with their wild, flower-strewn hair and pastel outfits. They move as slow as colors in an impressionist painting. Marius almost feels guilty for intruding. Then he remembers Jehan’s smug smile from earlier and the guilt evaporates as quickly as it appears.

“Just a friendly reminder that this room hasn’t been washed in a week and I’m pretty sure Bahorel and his girlfriend were in here the other day.” He laughs as Cosette gives him her best death glare; pulling away before Jehan can toss the roll of paper towels at his head.

“Go back to swooning over Courfeyrac!” Cosette shouts, and Marius hears the eyeroll in her voice. As he is so caught up in giving Jehan and Cosette grief, he never hears the door open, nor the footsteps as they make their way to the register.

“Well then.”

His heart falls through his stomach. Horror latches itself onto his throat as that familiar voice echoes in his head. His hand tightens on the sheet and he has to remind himself to breathe.

His keeps still for a moment before his self-defense instincts kick in. Marius shoves himself into the backroom, stumbling across Cosette and Jehan without bothering to look at them or apologize. The world blurs before him and he can’t seem to inhale the stale air of the back room fast enough.

 He reaches the bathroom and shoves the door closed. He grips the dirty sides of the sink and leans so that his forehead almost touches the cool surface of the mirror, gasping as he trembles. He never expected to have to own up to his own feelings so soon after fully realizing the extent of them.

The door opens a minute later to reveal Courfeyrac leaning against the frame, dressed in his cranberry-colored cardigan and his favorite aqua bowtie that clashes with it so abysmally.

“I thought you were meeting with Combeferre and Enjolras until work tonight.” Marius flinches as his voice cracks.

“They wanted me to come see if you guys stocked Rousseau’s _On the Social Contract_.” Courfeyrac stands there, his arms crossed, eyes never once leaving Marius. “Also you forgot to lock the door. Anything you care to share with the class?”

The lilac tiles of the bathroom floor suddenly become intensely riveting to Marius, who makes a note of each mud stain for his turn to clean later. He feels the red burning up his face and knows he must look like a tomato now.

“Marius.” Courfeyrac exhales his name like cigarette smoke and Marius cannot help but shiver slightly at the sound. He raises his head at the echo of Courfeyrac’s approaching footsteps against the tile. “We’ve talked about this. You can’t always run and hide.”

Courfeyrac’s wide, brown eyes dance in time to the vehemence in his voice. His dark brown hair frames the sharp angles of his face, rendering him into an elfin creature. He stands close enough now that Marius can distinguish his cheekbones. And that damn maroon cardigan with the hideous bowtie all but glows in the cheap bathroom lighting.

Courfeyrac takes another step forward and Marius tightens his grip on the sink. The world spins madly around him, memories of Courfeyrac’s bone-shattering hugs and of the drunken folk songs they tried to sing on cold autumn nights clogging his throat. More than anything else though, Courfeyrac’s laughter blinds him, that boisterous, ridiculous sound that he cherishes more than any other piece of music in the world. The burden of carrying these emotions left unsaid at last causes Marius to break.

“I love you,” he blurts out like an inebriated man who’s finally lost his filter as he relinquishes his grip on the sink and turns to face Courfeyrac at last.

Courfeyrac, whose fairy eyes crinkle as his lips tilt into a half-smile, grabs Marius’ face between his hands.

“You beautiful idiot.”

Marius doesn’t have time to process anything other than the fact that Courfeyrac is cradling his face in his hands before he finds his lips pressed against the other man’s. He almost falls forward on top of him as he flails and tries to reclaim his sense of balance amid the calamity of sensation bursting forth within him like fireworks.

Their kiss, chaste and sweet, breaks after only a few seconds. Courfeyrac brings his forehead to rest against Marius’. Marius wonders if perhaps he hadn’t hit his head too hard against the books to make this entire scenario up inside his head.

He tries to speak but can only manage a meek noise too quiet for a squeak yet too loud for a whimper.

“Took you long enough, you beautiful idiot.” Courfeyrac’s smile electrifies his entire being. He lets out a breathy laugh as his nose brushes against Courfeyrac’s.

“Really?” Marius asks as Courfeyrac grasps his hands and squeezes them. He might burst from the incendiary hope expanding in his chest.

“I have a thing for gingers and terrible pick-up lines, what can I say?” Courfeyrac mumbles against his lips before kissing him again. “All you did was stumble into that bar and I was gone.”

Marius hardly knows what to say so he keeps kissing him. He leans into him and tangles his hands in the collar of his shirt as he convinces himself that he is not dreaming.

“Forgive me.” Marius breathes against him as he pulls back. “I really am an idiot.”

“Yes.” Courfeyrac steals another kiss. “But you’re _my_ beautiful idiot.”

Marius can’t stop grinning despite the voice in the back of his head, sounding an awful lot like Musichetta, reminding him of his duty to work. He quiets that voice as he reaches for Courfeyrac at the same time Courfeyrac reaches for him, colliding in each other’s arms and drowning out the world with their lips.

Courfeyrac presses him against the sink, hands wrapped around his lower back as Marius wraps his own around his neck. They kiss like men starved, mouths parting so that their tongues might find sustenance as tiny whimpers escape the both of them.

Marius whimpers as Courfeyrac lifts him onto the edge of the sink and steps closer to press up against him. He finds his legs wrapping around Courfeyrac instinctively as they kiss harder and faster. His heart might just leap out of his chest as all of him trembles from the intensity of it.

“I have…to work.” His words turn into unsteady gasps as Courfeyrac moves his lips across his face and drags one hand down his right side, briefly skimming across the exposed skin of his belly from where his shirt slightly rides up.

“Yes, we do have to work.” Courfeyrac presses the words directly under his jaw, punctuating each one with a kiss. “To make up for lost time.”

Marius tries to protest but then Courfeyrac latches on to a particularly sensitive spot on his neck and he moans, body jolting as he brings one hand to clutch desperately at the other man’s hair.

“Courfeyrac, Pontmercy!”

Reality intrudes in the form of Musichetta standing in the doorway with her arms crossed, attempting to look annoyed. This attempt is rather ruined by the way her mouth twitches at the corners, emphasizing the spark flickering in her brown eyes. Nonetheless, Marius and Courfeyrac pull apart, Marius struggling to regain a normal pattern of breathing and Courfeyrac smirking, very much the epitome of the cat who got into the cream.

As the manager of The Lilac Branch, Musichetta both reigns in the antics of her employees (all of whom just so happen to be her friends, but no one ever mentions this) and defends them from the wrath of irate customers with a natural ease. She keeps her near black curls in a loose pony tail that constantly brushes over the olive-toned skin of her shoulders exposed by her short, silk blouses. She goes from skirts to pants depending upon whether she fought with Joly in the morning. She is at once a free spirit and a determined young woman mastering the art of balancing business with pleasure.

She loves Cosette and Eponine almost as fiercely as she loves Bossuet and Joly. Anyone who dares to question this or degrade her through her relationship with her boys finds out the hard way just why exactly many still call her “wild at heart.”

Most importantly, she never tolerates any of the boys’ shit, as Marius understands better than most. (The conversation they had as Musichetta explained to him how Eponine felt about him his second year of university still haunts him in his sleep.)

“Problem, mademoiselle?” Courfeyrac is all charm as he tangles his hand in Marius’ and helps him to his feet. Marius leans against him to keep steady as his heart rate increases at being found out in such a way. He had thought Musichetta to be gone all day, as she had mentioned before they opened that morning.

Apparently her conference had ended sooner than expected.

“Aside from the obvious fact that Marius is supposed to be on the floor right now, there’s the issue of a non-employee in the private bathroom.” She raises her eyebrow, arms still crossed over her chest.

“I’m a very, very good,” Courfeyrac moves his free hand up Marius’ shirt while leaning in to suck briefly at his ear, inspiring Marius to jump, “friend.”

“Yes, I can see that.” She shakes her head, yet underneath the bouncing strands of her pony tail that have come loose, Marius makes out the beginnings of a resigned grin. “Doesn’t mean this bathroom needs to see any more ass than it’s already exposed to.”

Marius goes red (again) as Courfeyrac grins wider.

“More’s the pity for this bathroom then.”

“Musichetta, I’m sorry, I didn’t - ” Marius stammers and squirms as Courfeyrac squeezes his hand and ruffles his hair.

“Save it, Pontmercy. You get a pass this one time.” She says, finally giving into the smile she’d been trying to hide. “Only because it’s about damn time. I’m sick of you mooning over poetry.”

“You were mooning over poetry for me?” Courfeyrac smiles against his neck. “God I love you, you ridiculous dork.”

Marius’ eyes flutter as he nuzzles him a bit. He doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of the warmth Courfeyrac inspires within him.

“But also Bossuet now owes me twenty Euros.”  Musichetta pumps her fist in the air before turning to go. “God I can’t wait to see the look on his face.”

“Oh.” She leans back in with a toss of her hair. “And if the two of you aren’t out of here in five minutes, I’ll dock it out of your pay, Marius. Cheers!”

As soon as she leaves, Marius is the one to tug Courfeyrac close and kiss him, throwing everything of himself into it. He is unable to stop smiling as they pull and tug at each other. He feels as invincible as Neruda’s words.

“So we’ll use your room for storage now, yes?” Courfeyrac asks as he pulls back and begins to lead him out of the bathroom. “I mean, it’s a glorified cupboard under the stairs as it is.”

Marius shivers at the prospect of getting to curl around Courfeyrac in bed; the other man feels it through their joined hands and smirks as he sneaks in another kiss.

“I’m taking that as a yes, then.”

 

\---

 

They manage to make it out of the backroom and around the register holding hands. Marius leans in to nuzzle Courfeyrac occasionally, so caught up in his own euphoria as to not give a damn as to who might see them. The store is alive with the flurry of the afternoon crowd, much to Marius’ surprise when he finally glances away from Courfeyrac. He wonders that Musichetta is not more annoyed with him for leaving Jehan to deal with so many people on his own.

“So?”

His favorite poetry companion smirks at him from behind a group of university students, looking entirely too smug for Marius’ liking. Marius rolls his eyes in response, though the corners of his mouth twitch too often for the gesture to be mistaken for anything other than gentle teasing.

“You’re welcome!” He calls out as they pass by him. Marius catches sight of Cosette just as she leaves through the front door and breathes a sigh of relief that he won’t have to face her own brand of self-satisfaction in addition to Jehan.

“What is that all about?” Courfeyrac tilts his head in Jehan’s direction.

“Well.” Marius runs his free hand through his hair. “It’s really because of him today even happened.”

“We’ll buy him a bottle of wine later.” Courfeyrac says against his cheek before kissing it. He stops Marius midway through the bookstore to glance down a couple of aisles of books.

“Courfeyrac, what are you - ”

He abruptly pulls Marius to the left. Before he can finish speaking, Courfeyrac shoves him against a row of books and starts kissing up his neck to his mouth.

“Courfeyrac,” he breathes, struggling mostly against himself as the other man presses into him, “Courfeyrac, I have to work.”

“Hmm.” Courfeyrac hums nonchalantly as he kisses him deeply.

Marius does not mewl as he leans his head back; that would be completely undignified. A state of being Courfeyrac seems determined to drive him towards with his mouth and his hands that he tangles in his own. As he takes Marius’ bottom lip in between his own, Marius melts and doesn’t mewl again.

“We absolutely have to recreate that scene from Atonement some time.” Courfeyrac murmurs against his lips as he raises their entwined hands and presses them into the bookshelves.

Marius inhales sharply, his back arching slightly as obscene imagery begins to litter his thoughts like leaves falling in autumn.

“You’re going to get me fired.” He breathes more than speaks, his voice reduced to a sliver of itself at Courfeyrac’s doing.

“I’m sorry.” He’s really not; Marius can taste it on his lips. “You’re just so pretty when you blush.”

He nuzzles Marius’ freckled neck before gradually releasing his hands and pulling back. Marius again makes a noise that is definitely not mewling as they separate, and Courfeyrac’s grin widens, if that’s even possible.

“By the way, I have to work late tonight, so don’t wait up for me okay?” He leans in to press one last, lingering kiss to Marius’ lips.

“Okay?” He repeats when Marius, still dazed and breathless, does not immediately respond.

“Okay.” Marius agrees, though it’s a promise he has no intention of keeping. He’s always waited up for Courfeyrac.

“I’ll see you later then.” Courfeyrac ruffles his hair again before sneaking a kiss to his nose.

Marius finds himself bereft when he leaves, though his lungs feel like balloons in his chest and his heart refuses to stop racing. His face actually hurts from smiling so much. He finds he doesn’t care as he moves to return to work.

His lungs deflate at the prepubescent girl dressed in yellow gaping at him at the beginning of the aisle.

“Well. Shit.”

 

\---

 

He’s certain Courfeyrac will delight in the fact that they managed to traumatize a preteen, (“Introduce her to the finer pleasures of life at a young age, really,” he hears Courfeyrac’s response in his head), but Marius knows he will not forget the lecture or the look on Musichetta’s face spawned as a result of said traumatizing any time soon. (“If I have to keep pulling you off each other at work Pontmercy, I swear to God…”)

Jehan spends the rest of their shift quoting ridiculous Byron passages at him, but as they close up and before they part, he pulls Marius into a tight hug and starts rambling about how they really ought to start planning their first (of many, inevitably) double dates.

Marius waves and waits until Jehan disappears around the corner before setting off in the direction of his own apartment. He walks, occasionally skipping because Marius forgets his life is not a musical whenever he is truly happy. He plays with the hem of his shirt and he tries to suppress the manic grin plastered across his face. Despite his best efforts, he finds himself restless at the thought of returning to an empty apartment.

He pulls out his cellphone and attempts to latch on to someone else’s plans, a habit he’s picked up from watching Courfeyrac over the years.

He already knows Jehan and Cosette to be down for the count, already involved with Joly, Musichetta, and Bossuet on a double date. Combeferre and Enjolras are immersed in books and philosophy as they attempt to plan a protest against the destruction of a local homeless shelter. Feuilly is working the same shift as Courfeyrac at their restaurant. Bahorel, Grantaire, and Eponine are all out at their favorite dive bar, gambling and starting fights over shitty pick-up lines.

“You should come join us, Marius.” Bahorel cajoles over the phone. “Courfeyrac wouldn’t want you wasting away on your own after all.”

Marius chews on his lip as his face heats up. Bahorel’s joined laughter with Grantaire and Eponine in the background doesn’t help.

“So Cosette told you?”

“She sent out a mass text as soon as he followed you into the bathroom. Jehan filled in the rest. Apparently the pair of you scarred an innocent child?” Bahorel can’t control his giggling, which tells Marius that he’s on his fifth round of scotch, which means he is mere minutes away from initiating his first fight of the night.

“Marius, get your freckled ass down here!” Grantaire manages to steal the phone away from Bahorel, his voice its usual state of intoxicated glee. “I need details!”

 “And besides I still need to teach you how to fight!” Bahorel says as a burst of shouting erupts. “Oh shit. I have to go. Get here quick! The real fun’s just starting!”

As he hangs up, Marius shudders to think of what Bahorel means by ‘real fun.’ He’s gotten into a few scraps at protests himself, but never anything more than a couple of punches and perhaps a misguided kick or two. Bahorel, Grantaire, and Eponine live for the thrill of the bar brawl. He imagines fighting with Bahorel and shudders again.

He contemplates how he wants to spend his evening as he walks, until the scent of baking bread halts him. He passes by several restaurants before the light of the corner grocery store the block ahead of his apartment catches his eye. He grins as he walks towards it.

 

\---

 

Marius stumbles into his apartment under the weight of a paper bag filled with various ingredients and a carton of milk, as well as a bottle of Courfeyrac’s favorite cheap red wine. He places the bag on the island counter dividing their practically non-existent living room from their even more miniscule kitchen and takes a seat for a moment, resting his head in his hands as he allows the day to catch up with him.

Their apartment has always been cramped; Courfeyrac wasn’t entirely exaggerating when he called Marius’ (old) room a glorified cupboard. Their kitchenette holds only enough space for the refrigerator, oven, sink and old, wooden shelves barely holding themselves together. The living room is the size of a study; with space enough for a fading, yellow loveseat falling apart at the seams, used television, and a bookshelf about to burst from the weight of so many novels and DVDs. The one bathroom is no bigger than a closet. Stepping into the shower requires the flexibility of a contortionist. (Marius, with all the grace of a toddler, has only just avoided the emergency room after several missteps, and even Courfeyrac is hardly better.) Courfeyrac’s room is two inches wider than their living room, though one would never know it from the mountains of clothing and other debris littering the floor. Every floor is covered in sickly grey carpet. Every wall painted a hideous shade of off white. Marius wouldn’t have it any other way.

He stares at the brown bag for a few moments, pondering its contents as a familiar excitement begins to hum through him like electricity. Like the majority of his current passions in life, Marius grew an affinity for cooking out of spite for his grandfather.

Monsieur Gillenormand often voiced his disdain for the working class in his political debates with his wealthy friends. Marius never paid his words much mind until he reached the age of 16, that age when the spirit of a person is most prone to influence by the external world as it filters through the cracks in their lives. For as much as his grandfather attempted to sculpt Marius into a creature of his own design through homeschooling and social outings limited to the manors of his friends and church, Marius befriended the help in their own home, including the cooks, and thus gained access to perspectives different from his own.

Thus he began to cultivate his own awareness as to the external world and the unrest within it. So when one fine April morning he overheard his grandfather condemning the working class for “sullying the good name of modern politics,” Marius clenched his fists by his sides and swore to himself that he would never grow up to be like his grandfather. He ran off to the kitchens and made himself his own sandwich, marching up into his grandfather’s study to eat it directly in front of him.

“I made it myself.” He declared while chewing, relishing in the pure horror on Gillenormand’s face at his open anarchy against the establishment of manners.

“Why? We have people for that.” His grandfather had turned red as his friends glanced on in pity. Marius had taken strength from his embarrassment.

“Because I am perfectly capable of cooking for myself.” Marius retorted, eyes blazing with the same green ardor as his grandfather’s. “Or does my self-reliance only sully the good name of modernity?”

Ever since he had stormed out of that room in the wake of the explosive argument following his outburst, Marius began to cook for himself, no longer adhering to his grandfather’s idea of sitting down for meals or his outdated notion of what ought to constitute a thorough meal. This spark of defiance proved to be his first taste of freedom, inspiring in him a hunger that would eventually see him sever all ties with his grandfather.

He grew fonder of cooking the more he came to rely on it. Having distanced himself from his family and throwing himself into the politics of his friends, cooking provided an outlet for the excess of emotion he built up in refining his passions. He baked cookies after meetings, cakes for when he fell in love with Cosette. In his pining over Courfeyrac he grew careless, cooking only out of necessity rather than for pleasure.

Now, as Marius rises from his chair and begins to sort through the ingredients, the memory of joy in creating utterly indulgent sweets overcomes him. He decides upon a recipe he’s only made once before, back when he was still dating Cosette. A concoction formally known as a peanut butter brownie truffle, Courfeyrac, upon seeing the finished product for the first time (and swiping a bit to sample for himself, of course), declared it as “Pontmercy’s Hot Mess.” No matter how hard Marius tried to fight off the name, it stuck, thanks to Courfeyrac’s impish declaration and Grantaire’s encouragement at the meeting that same night.

Regardless of his excessive teasing, Courfeyrac came back for seconds, thirds, and even fourths, much to the dismay of the rest of the group. (“I didn’t even get to try the thing!” Bahorel had said, glaring at Courfeyrac.) Marius keeps this in mind as he starts to place the ingredients for a larger batch in order.

Courfeyrac, as one of the best waiters at his restaurant, often works the longer and more difficult shifts. Marius does not expect him home for three hours at least, and while making his “Hot Mess” does not require that length of time, it certainly helps to pass the hours of Courfeyrac’s absence.

So he opens draws to take out the required baking utensils as anticipation sends trills like a sparrow’s song through his veins. He pictures Courfeyrac’s smile, which sets off “Ho Hey” in his mind, provoking him into a grin of his own. As he sets to work, Marius begins to hum under his breath.

 

\---

 

“I told you not to wait up for me.”

Marius awakens to Courfeyrac kneeling beside him on the couch, his dark curls disheveled as they frame his rolling eyes as he leans in to kiss him softly.

“Beautiful idiot.”

He appears to Marius as a blur, the last vestiges of sleep still clouding the edge of his vision as he sits up.

“I made some of my Hot Mess for you.” Marius replies, stretching his arms against the back of the loveseat. At this pronouncement, Courfeyrac perks up; his eyes alight like those of a puppy promised treats. Then he catches sight of the injury Marius forgot to keep hidden.

“…Does making your Hot Mess involve knives of any kind?” Courfeyrac has him by his left wrist a moment later.

“Oh. Um. Well…” Marius looks down and begins picking at the fabric of the couch with his free hand. “I was trying to get to the mixing spoon and I kind of tripped and fell into the knife I left on the counter.”

“Did you fall into the knife ten times?” Courfeyrac deadpans as he inspects the wound, breathing a sigh of relief when he finds it to be shallow though he winces at the blood still seeping through the bandage.

Marius snorts but doesn’t respond otherwise. He really had been careful. Except for when he had been dancing around the kitchen like a fool. He doesn’t tell Courfeyrac this for fear of never hearing the end of it.

“Alright, wait here.” Courfeyrac stands up. “I trust you can manage to not hurt yourself sitting still. Although, knowing you, you’ll probably find a way, so I’ll be quick.”

Marius hardly has the chance to feel indignant before Courfeyrac returns, wash cloth, Neosporin and fresh band-aid in hand. He again kneels beside him and takes his wrist in his hand. 

“So you haven’t been making out with my casually strewn about handkerchiefs either have you?” Courfeyrac asks as he rips the old band-aid off. “Just checking.”

“Oh my God, _that was one time_.” Marius squeaks, a fresh blush blooming across his face as he tries desperately to suppress that unfortunate memory. He pouts.

“Aw, wee lamb.” Courfeyrac chuckles, leaning in quickly to press a kiss to his cheek before beginning to wash the blood, both fresh and caked, from Marius’ wrist.

Cosette and Courfeyrac both have never let him forget that night their first year of university in which Marius picked up a floral handkerchief and, believing it to belong to Cosette, spent the remainder of the evening nuzzling and even kissing it. Courfeyrac has the photographic evidence on his phone, “for scientific purposes” he says. Said handkerchief actually turned out to belong to Cosette’s adoptive father from when he paid her one of his rare visits, much to Marius’ further dismay and Courfeyrac’s endless delight.

“You’re never going to live that one down, sorry darling.” Marius groans, holding his face in his hand even as his pout turns into the beginnings of a smile at Courfeyrac’s term of endearment.

Courfeyrac’s use of the word ‘darling’ should not affect him at all and yet he shivers anyway.

“I was…not entirely sober, you know that.” Courfeyrac rubs the washcloth across his skin in a gentle, soothing motion that slows Marius’ breath. He lets his head fall back against the couch as Courfeyrac finishes and reaches for the Neosporin.

“I do know because I had to tuck you into bed and you wouldn’t let me leave.” Courfeyrac says as he applies the Neosporin. “I got free cuddles out of it though, so I never really minded.”

Marius outright smiles again at that memory, the smoothness of Courfeyrac’s t shirt rubbing against his bare skin as they slept draped over one another. The longer he dwells on it, the more he wonders if that’s not the exact moment he fell in love with Courfeyrac.

“Now,” Courfeyrac murmurs as he fixes the band-aid and raises his head to press a kiss to his lips. “I believe you promised me food.”

“I did.” Marius grins as he lets Courfeyrac pull him to his feet and lead him toward the kitchenette. “Come with me.”

“And then,” Courfeyrac whispers into his ear before pressing him against the refrigerator. “Bed.”

“Mmph.” Marius answers just as Courfeyrac kisses him again.

 

\---

 

Marius awakens to Courfeyrac pressing open mouthed kisses along his collarbone, arms still wrapped around him as their legs tangle beneath the sheets. His eyelids flutter for a few moments as he adjusts to the streams of light filtering in through the crappy, torn window shades adorning the one window in the room. Last night lingers throughout him, his chest as light as air and his head as heavy as stone.

“What are you doing?” He asks as he stretches his neck to provide Courfeyrac with a better angle.

“Taking inventory on your freckles.” He replies between kisses, sunlight dancing in his eyes. “For important, scientific reasons, of course.”

Marius giggles which turn into gasps as Courfeyrac lavishes that damn spot on his neck with particular attention. His foot starts to move up the side of Courfeyrac’s leg almost of its own volition as the yellow sheets grow more entangled between their bodies.

“And don’t worry about work today. I already called in for you. Musichetta completely understands.” He pauses in his kisses to nuzzle against Marius’ pale shoulder.

“What did you tell her?” Marius should be offended at the idea of skipping work for any less than legitimate reason, but it’s Courfeyrac, and he also doesn’t want to leave their bedroom.

“That you were too sick to move and sadly would not be able to leave your bed this morning.” He answers with a rogue lilt and a grin to match as Marius half-heartedly swats at the side of his head. “Hey, I only speak the truth!”

“Did she believe you?” Marius asks as he tugs on Courfeyrac to bring him closer.

“Absolutely not.” He moves so that he lays over Marius, propping himself up on his elbows. “But she gave us her blessing anyway.”

“That woman is a saint.” Marius says as Courfeyrac nods his agreement. Marius leans up to kiss him, halting when Courfeyrac presses two fingers to his lips.

“Wait a moment.” Courfeyrac murmurs as he reaches for an object on the small table next to the bed. “Here we are.” He pulls back with Neruda’s _The Captain’s Verses_ in his right hand.

“I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.” He informs the unspoken question in Marius’ eyes as he leans on his chest for support. “And I think I get it now.”

Marius expects Courfeyrac to make a pithy observation in an attempt to bait him. He does not expect him to start reciting poems in a voice that renders honey as gawky and useless as store-brand syrup.

“There are countries, there are rivers, in your eyes, my country is in your eyes, I walk through them, they light the world through which I walk, lovely one.” He ends the verse on a whisper, and Marius thinks that he would dissipate with the dust motes if Courfeyrac’s weight did not anchor him to the bed.

His chest tightens as he pulls Courfeyrac down by the hair to kiss him thoroughly. The book falls first on to the bed before hitting the floor. They pay it no mind. Their lips part and their tongues touch with the same delicate lyricism of Neruda’s words. They groan together as Marius drags a hand down Courfeyrac’s chest and Courfeyrac settles more fully on top of Marius, parting his legs with his hips.

The kiss renders them both breathless as they rest their foreheads together, chests heaving almost in time. Courfeyrac kisses from his nose to the freckles etched across his cheeks to his swollen lips.

“You are mine, my lovely one.” He recites against Marius’ lips. “Always.”

They sink upon the bed as the sun rises in the sky. 


End file.
